


super mario bedspread

by a_stankova



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Break Up, Canon Compliant, F/F, F/M, POV Second Person, Sexual Tension, The Bus Incident, Villaneve Endgame, YouTube, poland - Freeform, post 3x03, power
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:37:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23909509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_stankova/pseuds/a_stankova
Summary: ‘And really, how stupid had you been to assume that nobody had been filming it? It was London, for fuck’s sake.’Or, the one where Niko finds out about the Bus Incident through YouTube.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Niko Polastri, Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 13
Kudos: 232





	super mario bedspread

**Author's Note:**

> an idea that wouldn’t leave me alone post 3x03, thrown together very haphazardly

Your birthday this year had been one of the worst.

You’d woken alone, sans a husband and the annual Pancake Tradition, and remembered almost immediately that Kenny is dead. Your day was to be spent investigating who had killed him, rather than relaxing in bed and going for a romantic dinner.

Which was fine. Who needed it, anyway?

A cake had been delivered to Bitter Pill at noon. It was from from Dunn’s, a cute little bakery that Niko ordered from for you every year, and you’d smiled, thinking that it must be from him.

But something had niggled at you, reminding you of a particular blonde in a grey three-piece suit, and you didn’t open the box until you were on the roof and _fuck that asshole_.

A double-decker bus. A fucking double-decker bus, with the words ‘Happy Birthday Eve!’ emblazoned across the top deck.

You had run with the box, and tossed it from the roof with a cry. Fuck that asshole.

Flowers had come next – massive pink roses. The card inside had read ‘ _thinking of you on your special day_ ’. The card, along with the roses, were subsequently trashed.

When you had gotten home that evening and found a bottle of your favourite wine waiting for you on the doorstep, it had been the final straw. You had stormed inside and pulled up your laptop, booking yourself on the earliest flight to Poland, packing enough clothes to do you for at least a week.

You had drank the wine. You aren’t choosy.

You will, however, retreat back to the safety of your marriage at any given point because really, fuck that asshole.

You arrive in Poland the next evening and head for Niko’s childhood home – it’s a small farm on the outskirts of town, surrounded by acres of yellowing land and barren trees. The main house is large with several rooms, and you find yourself in one of the spares, the one reserved for the kids when they’re over for the holidays. It’s cramped and smells kinda weird but you ignore it, focusing instead on the reason you’re here.

Which is… _what_ , exactly?

While you wait for Niko, you sit on the bunk bed, hiss through your teeth when you hit your head. The impact of it jolts a familiar memory loose, because suddenly you’re remembering Villanelle on top of you, springing backwards as your foreheads had crashed together.

You dump your duffel bag next to you, frown at the bedsheets. Super Mario brothers. Perfect.

The door opens then, and you look up, blinking several times. Valerie hadn’t been lying, apparently – he really _is_ looking better; he is clean-shaven, his moustache even well-groomed; his hair has been cut a little and his eyes are no longer bleary, although you do think you can see the shadow of Gemma’s asphyxiation. Terror lingers there, a memory that no doubt haunts him at night, keeping him from sleep.

But he really does look better. Healthier. Is that because he hasn’t seen you?

You stare at one another for several seconds, separated by ten feet of space that seems to stretch wider than the the whole of Poland, and it becomes painfully clear to you in this moment just how much has happened, what has passed between the two of you, the gravity of it all. Anything you could think of to say now wouldn’t feel appropriate or just.

“Hi,” he says.

You can almost pretend it’ll be that easy.

“Hi,” you breathe out, leaving that out there on its own for a moment before edging into more complex territory. “How’ve you been?”

“Oh, y’know,” he shrugs, shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and blows his cheeks out like he’d rather be anywhere else.

You blink. “I – actually don’t.” And you really ought to feel guilty about that, but it’s difficult when he looks so damn uninterested.

“How do you think I’ve been, Eve?”

That’s fair, you suppose. “I…okay, I–”

“My friend was murdered in front of me and I spent months in rehab but really I–”

“I said okay,” you sigh sharply, in no mood for an argument. The pain in your shoulder makes your mind murky and you could do without the aggravation. “Shall we get some tea, or…?”

“No, no tea.”

You’re only half-joking when you suggest “vodka?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he sighs out, trying to smile. It’s meant to be funny, you’re sure, but it just isn’t. It’s said with such seriousness that you just feel awkward, and suddenly compelled to say–

“You look tired.”

“I am. Very.” He looks at you then, properly for the first time since his arrival. His eyes linger on your eyebrow, the bruise that’s fading there. “You aren’t looking so hot yourself.”

Instinctively, you touch your fingers to the wound. “Oh, I–walked into a door,” you lie, all too easily. You’re not about to tell him where you really got it.

“And the shoulder? Are you still in pain?”

“Not much. A little.”

Niko hums then – and oh, it’s not disinterest that you have been seeing. He’s smug. You can feel him judging you, can hear the ‘I told you so’ screaming to be let out from inside his mind, and it pisses you off but you set it aside. You really don’t want an argument.

“You are looking better,” you try, forcing a smile. “I–didn’t realise you’d left London.”

“I wanted to come home. London is…too many memories.”

You bite your tongue, wonder if your marriage is one of the ‘memories’ he’s running from. “You didn’t tell me,” you point out, only slightly accusingly. “You just…left.”

“And how many times did you ‘just leave’ when you were chasing psychos across Europe?”

It’s bait. He’s testing you. Predictably, you bite.

“It was my job, Niko,” you defend, more vehemently than you probably mean to. “It’s not like I wanted–”

He cuts you off there with a laugh. “Let’s not even get started on what it is that you wanted. We both know you loved every second of it.”

You close your mouth again. Swallow. And okay, yeah, that’s fair.

“Have you seen her?” he asks suddenly, eyes flashing.

You swallow again. Your stomach churns. You lie. “No.”

When he says nothing, you press on. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” you insist. “I’m here now and I want to make this work. Make _us_ work.”

He sighs heavily then, exasperated. Then he’s standing.

“Like always,” he grumbles, “it’s all about what you want. What about what I want, Eve?”

He walks out, leaves you on the Super Mario bedspread to ponder why you don’t feel as crushed as you probably should right about now.

You give him his space, sleep fitfully throughout the night and venture out the next morning. You’ve never really been one for the outdoors – would much rather live in the city, surrounded by noise and triviality – but this is Niko’s world, and Niko likes this kind of thing, so you’re trying to embrace it. But you’re also realising with every passing minute just how selfish you’ve become, because you really don’t give a fuck about any of this anymore, if you ever did. The fresh air, the chickens, the fucking glamping lifestyle? It’s not you, not at all, and all you can think about is how much Villanelle would _hate_ it here.

Niko finds you in the yard that afternoon, wearing something of a determined expression on his face. “I’m having bridge night tonight,” he tells you. “With the boys. You should come.”

You blink, then give a small smile. It’s reminiscent of your many evenings spent together at his bridge club, when you’d played together. Is this his way of extending an olive branch?

“Sounds great,” you say.

The place is stuffy and brimming with men, drunk and hollering, but you don’t mind. Truthfully, the noise is somewhat numbing, and with alcohol flowing, Niko is in a much better mood, much more open to sharing a joke with you. You can almost pretend that it will be enough. Enough to fix everything. Enough to block Villanelle out.

Things are going well. You’re seated with Niko and a few of his friends now, finishing up a game and downing the last of your rounds of drinks. Beside you, Kasper, an old school friend of Niko’s, is scrolling through his phone, laughing wildly at a video he’s found on YouTube. His eyes go wide all of a sudden, and he turns to her, thrusting the phone out for both you and Niko to see.

“Hey, Eve, is that you?”

The video he’s watching has garnered over 50,000 views and was uploaded less than a week ago. Your heart sinks as you read the title, ‘TWO WOMEN BRAWL ON LONDON BUS W SURPRISE END!’, and you lunge for the phone, panic roiling in your gut because fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

“It’s not me,” you blurt out, but it’s futile because it’s so fucking obvious that it’s you. It’s you slamming Villanelle against the window, punching her across the face; it’s you being dragged to the back of the bus and being pinned down; it’s you kissing Villanelle, and staring at her like she’s the entire world.

And really, how stupid had you been to assume that nobody had been filming it? It was London, for fuck’s sake.

The world around you goes quiet, made real only by the distinct sound of you groaning as Villanelle flees the bus, foreheads clutched in hands. The colour has drained from Niko’s face; he stands, nods once at his friends, and leaves without a single word.

You feel sick. “ _Shit_ ,” you whisper under your breath, throwing a disgusted glance at Kasper and the others – like it’s any of their faults – as you chase after your husband.

He’s in your room, sitting atop the Super Mario bedspread, waiting. You want to speak first, to apologise, to beg his forgiveness, but the words don’t come, and it doesn’t matter anyway because he gets in there first.

“You told me you hadn’t seen her.”

“I…I haven’t. Not since Rome, that…it was only that one time.”

“And you thought you’d show her how much you missed her?”

“That’s not what I was doing,” you balk. “I didn’t…it’s not–”

“Just stop,” he interrupts, holding up his hand as he sighs, looking down at the floor. When he looks back at you, his gaze flickers to the fading bruise on your face, and his frown deepens as your carefully crafted lie about its origin dissolves in his mind, replaced by a far more heated image.

You’re expecting the worst, are perhaps expecting him to scream at you, cry even. He does none of these things. Instead, he looks you straight in the eye, and says:

“We can move past this.”

You blink. You hadn’t anticipated that at _all_. You face must give you away, for he turns his body to face you fully, starts talking with his hands in big, emotive gestures. “Just-hear me out, okay? I know it’s been hard, and I know we’ve had our issues–”

“‘Issues’ is a bit of an understatement, Niko.”

“Nevertheless, I think…I don’t think we should throw away what we have.” He frowns softly, as if what he’s feeling most of all is confusion as to how you both have drifted apart. “Ten years we’ve been married, Eve – there’s got to be something still worth saving. Or, at least, I think there is. I still love you, Eve, in spite of everything.”

“Well, thank you,” you deadpan with a frown, “you’re really too kind.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, I think you did.”

He sighs, reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Be so defensive. I’m trying to talk to you, I want us to be able to work this out.”

It seems to occur to him then, that perhaps he is the only one who wants that. “Don’t you?” He frowns, his voice flirting with the line between nervousness and horrified disbelief.

You blink, open your mouth but find your throat has gone dry. Deep inside, your stomach has started to churn, twisting into guilty knots as a million things rush through your mind to say; things you’re desperate to say, things you really shouldn’t say.

You could lie, again, take the easy road, _of course that’s what I want darling, let’s start over, let’s work it out._

But your stomach hurts with how much it’s twisting, and you have to wonder if that’s really what you wants after all, and maybe, deep down, he feels the same. Hadn’t he already left? Hadn’t he already made it clear that your interests had become unaligned?

Through the tightness of your throat, you ask “What’s changed?”.

He stares blankly back at you, looking so unbelievably dumb that your stomach starts contracting harder.

“What has actually changed here, Niko?” you press.

He narrows an eyebrow, folds his arms across his chest somewhat indignantly. “Quite a lot has changed, Eve.”

“Like what?” You’re insistent now. “Every reason you had for leaving is still there, is it not?”

“I want us to move past all that,” he reasons. “I want us to be good again.”

You can’t help herself – you bark out a bitter laugh, throw your hands out to the side. “How can we be!? How can we be when you’re constantly waiting for me to be someone I’m not? When you’re always saying that you want your wife to come back?”

“I do want my wife to come back,” he snaps.

You bite back a groan, sigh instead and fold your arms defiantly over your own chest. “If that’s true then I think you have an unrealistic understanding of who I actually am.”

He doesn’t like that; you can tell from his face before he’s even responding. “That’s bullshit, Eve. You are the kindest, best person I know. But you’ve had your head turned, by all of this spying and the lies and that fucking woman–”

And really, fuck not wanting an argument. “My head has not been turned, Niko,” you protest, firmly, like you’re offended by the mere suggestion. “This is who I am, who I’ve always been.”

“No, it’s not. She made you this way, Eve, she wanted to ruin us–”

“Don’t,” you snap. “Don’t bring her into this.” Fuck not wanting an argument. You’re angry enough without the thought of that infuriating, psychotic, gorgeous fucking asshole fuelling her on.

“Eve–”

“ _No_ ,” you interject abruptly. “We had our problems long before Villanelle, so don’t use her now to explain away everything that has gone wrong.”

“She is the reason!” he exclaims, springing up off the bed. “Gemma is dead! Christ Eve, you were shot!”

“You think I don’t know that!?”

“Do you!?” And he’s angry now, angrier than you think you’ve ever seen him; his eyes are wide and wild, and his fists are trembling. “She nearly killed you, Eve, and you’re standing there defending her!”

“I am not!”

“Wake up! She is a terrible, awful person!”

“So am I!”

“She’s a murderer!”

“ _So am I_!”

And then, it’s quiet. Leaving that out there on its own leaves you feeling naked, terrified, more honest than you’ve ever felt in your life. It’s horrific, sickening, makes your heart pound, your blood race, makes you feel panicked and scared and dizzy and nauseous and–

Free.

So fucking free.

You realise now that you’re right in front of him, don’t even feel the pain of your shoulder as you hold his gaze, breathing shakily through the realisation that while, yes, you are panicked and naked and all of those things, you are completely and utterly in control. For the first time in a long time, you are honest. You hold nothing back.

You’d forgotten what it felt like, and you know, know, that this is the impact of what had happened that day on the Piccadilly line. The ‘surprise at the end!’ is, apparently, yourself.

“Stop it,” Niko whispers, looking so incredibly torn. “Don’t do this, Eve.”

Your breath hitches then, the sound dry and raspy as your eyes start to shine, as you grab hold of the only truth about yourself that’s left, the one thing you can say with certainty.

“I killed someone, Niko. In Rome. I picked up an axe, counted to three inside my head and I ended his life in two swings.”

_Red, spurting. I was thinking we should go to Alaska._

He closes his mouth and swallows hard – you remember the vomit in your own throat after Raymond, wonder briefly if he’s going to be sick. Instead, he takes a breath, stares hard at you as he tries, commendably, to justify it all:

“Did she make you do it?”

And you can’t help but laugh, however humourlessly, your voice choked and wet as it hits you that he’s probably going to hate you, but still, still, it’s not enough to stop you.

“I did it for her,” you whisper, a tear escaping down your cheek. “To save her life.”

With this final loathsome confession, everything suddenly feels very final. You can see in his eyes, clear as day, the way he’s shutting down, closing himself off to you forever. That twisting, churning pain in your stomach, you realise, is heavier now, but it hurts an awful lot less than it did. Now, it is just that – heavy – and you think that this must be what it feels like to let go.

“That worked out well for you, then,” he says lowly, mockingly, almost growling.

His words don’t even hurt, and when you do hurt, it’s your wound, but you hold herself up, fight off the urge to collapse down onto the Super Mario bedspread. You will see this through, pain be damned. You won’t give him reason to be proven right.

“I really thought we could fix this,” he tells you, as he shakes his head in (what can only be) shame and heads for the door. “But I don’t even recognise you anymore.”

“I never wanted any of this.” It’s probably only half-true, but it’s all you can offer – you can’t bring herself to apologise. You probably should, but you’re not sure if it would be genuine – you really aren’t all that kind.

Had you ever really been?

He lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “No. Of course not.”

And then he’s leaving, sniping “you and Villanelle deserve each other” as he walks out of your life forever, and when he is gone, you finally give in to your pain, clutching at your shoulder and groaning out hard as you sink back down onto the bed. Your face is hot, wet with tears as they come in trickles down your cheeks, but it isn’t sadness that you feel.

Relief is not quite the right word for it either. You float somewhere in between, lighter in spite of yourself. Perhaps you ought to feel hollower at the prospect of life without Niko, feel nervous at the idea of being alone.

“But you aren’t alone, are you?” he’d said once, and no, you hadn’t been then. It’s becoming clearer to you, with every second that you replay that kiss in your mind, that you most definitely are not now.

You had expected this to hurt more, to interfere almost violently with your headspace.

Instead, all you can think about is the bus, the shape of her body and the feel of her mouth and _hi, Eve._

Your arrival back in London is an unceremonious one; you’re met with rain, the bright lights of the West End,rude members of the general public – everything you’ve missed. Poland is a vastly different place, and far too quiet. It’s probably a good thing you left when you did.

You’ve only been back at your apartment for an hour when there is a knock at the door. It’s far too late for casual visitors, and you steel herself, expectant.

You open the door, and _hey aren’t you that blonde from the bus video?_

“What the fuck, Villanelle,” you sigh sharply. “It’s almost midnight.”

Villanelle shrugs, a hint of a smile in her eyes. “You don’t look like you were sleeping. Can I come in?”

“No.”

You go to slam the door, but Villanelle’s foot blocks you from doing so. “Jesus _Christ_ –”

“You realise I was only asking to be polite. Let me in.”

“Why?”

“Because I walked all this way and I need a drink.”

“There’s a McDonalds down the street. Go nuts.”

Villanelle pouts at that. “Stop pretending you are not happy to see me.” Then, her eyes flash, and she’s grinning wickedly. “Or do you need to hit me first before you show me just how happy you are?”

You feel your cheeks flush, and you huff loudly, turning on your heel and storming back into your apartment. You leave the door open, hear it close behind you as Villanelle steps over the threshold.

Like there’s any point in arguing with her – she comes and goes as she pleases, takes what she wants. That’s how it works.

“I got you something for your birthday,” Villanelle says then, producing a thin jewellery box from inside her coat pocket. She holds it out for you with a smile. “Belated.”

Your shoulders sink as you deflate, sighing in defeat. You reach for the box, fingers trembling slightly.

Inside is a gorgeous diamond necklace, simple and elegant but just detailed enough so as to exude expense. You gulp, blood rushing to your ears as you stare at it. It’s exactly the sort of thing you would have picked out for yourself, could you afford it.

But of course, Villanelle knows that. She always knows.

“Can I put it on for you?”

You nod, wordless. Villanelle takes the necklace and stands behind you, eyes flashing when you gather your hair away from your neck in your hands. She drapes the necklace around your neck and secures the clasp, smiling.

“Beautiful,” she murmurs.

You drop your hair and let your hands trail across the necklace, where the diamond lies nestled on your collarbones.

“Do you like it?” Villanelle asks softly against your ear.

A string pulls somewhere inside you. “It’s…” you sigh then, look down at the ground as you concede. “Of course I do.”

Villanelle hums, hands sneaking onto your waist from behind, chin dipping to rest against your shoulder. “I saw it in Spain one day, and I had a dream about you that night. You were naked, except for that necklace. The next morning I went and bought it for you immediately.”

“Stop that,” you whisper.

“What?”

“Dreaming about me,” you press with a shaky voice, stepping away from her and pouring yourself a glass of wine. “Also stop knowing what wine I like, and what flowers I like, and stop sending me cakes and fucking teddy bears with semi-threatening messages in them. Just...you need to stop.”

“Why?”

“Because I need you to.”

Villanelle steps forward, face serious and open. “Why.”

“Because it’s too much,” you blurt out, sighing heavily. “It’s too much and I can’t...I can’t handle it. But I can’t give in to you.”

“Of course you can.”

“No. I can’t. I won’t.” Then quieter: “I shouldn’t.”

Villanelle steps up to you then, pulls you in by your hips. Your heart lurches as your back finds the kitchen counter and seriously, what is it with the two of you and kitchen settings?

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Villanelle whispers, head tilted down so her breath brushes your cheek. “About the way you kissed me.”

You brain short-circuits. “ _Villanelle_ –”

“It’s your choice. Always yours.”

It’s fitting, really. You’ve made so many mistakes, but maybe now it’s time to make things right. You’ve already made one decision today.

“You know what I want,” you whisper shakily.

“Show me,” Villanelle whispers back, eyes going dark.

“I can’t go back if I do.”

“Would you even want to?”

“You’ve already taken so much from me.”

“So show me how angry that makes you. Make me understand.” A soft kiss against your neck makes you gasp. “You want me to confess my sins? Repent for you?”

You nearly crumble as Villanelle slides to her knees in front of you, hands wrapped around your knees as she presses her mouth to your stomach through your sweater.

“Do you like me like this?” Villanelle whispers. “Does it make you feel powerful?”

You can’t speak.

“Is this how it felt on the bus? When you kissed me? Did you feel powerful, Eve?”

“No,” you whisper, frustrated tears in your eyes. “Not in the least.”

And that’s the truth. The second you’d kissed Villanelle, all hope of gaining the upper hand had vanished, replaced by a yearning you’d been repressing for months.

Villanelle slithers back up, closer now. Your noses brush and you can’t help but look at her mouth, those lips that had enraptured you, lips you’d fought like Hell to forget about.

“What do I smell like?” Villanelle asks you, and suddenly you’re back in that moment, on your back with Villanelle on top of you while passengers gasped and someone recorded and the bus kept moving, moving, moving.

“ _Everything_ ,” you breathe out, trembling hands coming up to hold Villanelle’s neck. “You smell like everything.”

“I am everything,” Villanelle reminds you, determinedly, but somewhere in her eyes lingers that soft contentment that she reserves, just for you. “And I wanted to be yours.”

Your stomach drops out and you lean forward, pressing your foreheads together. Villanelle looks down between your bodies, at the silver around your neck, and breathes out, a soft smile creeping onto her face.

“But I suppose I never stopped being yours,” she admits in a soft voice, far more vulnerable than you have ever heard it, even compared to Rome.

Good, you think, but you can’t bring herself to say it. Instead, you lean up, let Villanelle kiss you this time because Hell knows you can’t hold the power here for long. You let your mind go blank, lose yourself in the moment because fuck knows it’s been a long time coming.

The only coherent thought in your mind forms when Villanelle’s mouth is on your scar ten minutes later, open and searching. You grips the pillows in your hands, fistfuls of soft white and grey, and you think, through gasps that soon devour you, how fucking thankful you are to be away from that stupid Super Mario bedspread.

**Author's Note:**

> i’m @a_stankova on twitter – come say hi!


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